


Show Me How to Burn Like You

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Rimming, Sibling Incest, Solo, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, also there's, holy shit teenage boys, just in case you weren't aware, lube is your friend, so many orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Dean is 17, and Sam is almost 13.) Sam comes home early from soccer and discovers several things, not the least of which is that he likes to touch...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me How to Burn Like You

Dean has been seventeen for three whole months now, and Sam's about to turn lucky number thirteen. He can feel his birthday approaching like a thundering stampede: still a ways off, but it rumbles through the ground and up Sam's legs as he walks.

The afternoon is still young. Sam scuffs his way through grass that for once isn't yet tinted gold by the sunset. He's surprised the soccer coach let them out of practice so early, but the guy sounded worse than those people on the cough drop commercials. And what boy in his right mind would question an early release when the day looks like this?

Sam pulls the scents of spring in deeply, and smiles.

As he rounds the corner, he begins to see little bits of bright yellow peeking through gaps between tree branches and other houses. It's the most vivid color on their street -- on any of the streets Sam has traveled here -- and the first time he saw it, Dean made a crack about living in the sun. "Conspicuous," John agreed gruffly, "but disarming. No one'll expect you two boys in there without --" And he coughed and looked away. Even Sam understood what that meant -- though he was still too young to look as suddenly murderous as Dean did.

That night when their father left, Dean scrounged up a striped apron from somewhere and cooked something with hot dogs and noodles that Sam found delicious. His brother's face was set the whole time with the look of someone determined to be pleased with what he had.

The house _is_ bright, Sam reasons as he approaches, but it's very comfortably domestic. White trim, kept shiny and neat by the owner, limns the yellow and trains it somewhat. The manicured lawn is the right color green, there are actual flowerbeds lining the porch, and right now they are a riot of color and bees.

Sam grins at a hornet as he passes up the stairs. Dean says they got this place for a song, and he said it in a way that made Sam think it wasn't such a good thing after all, but how could something so pretty and so like _home_ be anything bad?

Usually, he'll go up to the back door. Dean, though, has the habit of ambushing his brother with various obstacles: things laid across the door, haphazard piles of things on the floor, and even himself in a kitchen table chair stretched right where Sam needs to walk. It doesn't help that Sam is growing like a weed, rapidly approaching the size of a small giraffe with all the finesse that entails. Toeing off his ratty sneakers, Sam gently places his gear bag on the painted boards beside them. The front door whispers open, the knob not making even a click beneath his hand.

Silence, and the vague smell of cornstarch, greets him. He pads on sock-clad feet toward the kitchen, stomach rumbling. Now that he's in the cool stillness of inside, Sam can tell that he's actually been sweating, damp curls of hair sticking to his neck. His uniform feels tacky. He can't wait for a shower.

There's no one in the kitchen, and Sam can't hear anything from any of the other rooms. Dean must be out, he reasons. After all, Sam himself isn't due back for nearly an hour. There are all sorts of things a boy like Dean could get up to with that kind of time.

Sam raids the cabinets stealthily, even though he knows he doesn't need to take such care. It pleases him that he can be so completely silent. He finds a lonely piece of fruit leather, and grimaces. He's not all that fond of peach.

The tip of his tongue has just barely touched it when the front door bangs open, and Sam can hear Dean laughing. Not just chuckling, or giggling like he's done something stupid -- no, this is a wild sound that Sam's never heard his brother make, and the pure enjoyment in that laugh has something fond and warm coalescing in the pit of Sam's stomach. He smiles, the only way he knows to let that feeling escape.

Dean doesn't call out for him, which Sam doesn't expect anyway, and the older boy is loud enough for a whole herd of Deans dumping their boots by the door, bumping into the wall. Sam pads back through the dining and common rooms, hearing Dean plop so hard on the couch that the springs groan. He's clutching the fruit leather and rehearsing possibilities for The Best Way to Ask Dean About Groceries, with a brief thought that _at least it's easier than asking Dad..._

All that flees his mind when he steps around the couch and sees Dean is... involved.

Hips, and hands, that's really all he can see. Quiet moans he couldn't hear before now fill his ears, and Sam is frozen, planted, eyes glued to the space where his brother sprawls in the vee of someone's legs. Hairy legs, in khaki shorts. And those are not a girl's hands on Dean's back, tearing his shirt up over his head. Dean makes a noise that Sam has never heard before, one that jabs him hot and sharp, and the voice that joins him eagerly is muffled, but clearly male.

Sam is confused. Not by the idea of homosexuality; he's a smart kid, he knows that some people like to be with their own gender. He just thought he knew his brother better. Dean's no homophobe, but he always makes sure people know he's "into chicks, dude, no offense".

Dean's hips undulate down and his partner chokes out a low "Fuck, Dean --"

"Yeah," Sam's brother growls. Sam feels tight all over, prickly, his eyes going dry from staring. He's clutching that piece of fruit leather as though it can save him from it all.

The boy below Dean gets more and more vocal, but for some reason Sam's ears can only focus on the softer noises, slick slip of lips and tongue, Dean's little grunts, every panted breath he takes. Sam feels like he's matching him, breathing far too loudly, his heartbeat racing out of control.

"Ahh, shit," the stranger hisses, then "Let me --" and one of his hands slides out of sight. Dean lifts himself up, suddenly his pants are sagging lower on his slim hips and Sam can see the dip of his brother's butt just there above the waistband. Another zipper sound, louder, and when Dean's hips crash back down both boys groan, the stranger's voice rising, rising as one of Dean's hands joins his between them.

Sam is weaving on his feet, a feeling like waves of sunstroke rippling through his body. He stares in wonder as Dean's strokes shorten, quicken, slaps and moans coming faster. His brother's buttocks tighten and give three short shoves, and then the unmistakeable sound of Dean coming hard clenches up every muscle Sam has.

He stumbles backward, shaking, something fire and pleasure and light coursing beneath his skin.

"Sammy?" comes Dean's voice, bald disbelief. Sam tears his eyes back from whatever they'd focused on, seeing two heads poking over the back of the couch. One, a boy with tousled blond hair, looks more amused than anything. Dean looks shocked, horrified, but mostly just sad.

With as much dignity as he can muster, Sam squares his shoulders and says, "Could you keep it down? I'm trying to read."

"Sure you were," says the stranger, eying him with a smirk. Sam feels his face go red. Now that he knows it's there, he can feel the wet spot in his shorts. It's mortifying. Dean looks like he feels the same way.

Then the guy turns to Dean and says, "Or maybe he pissed himself. Is he even old enough to get a boner?"

Sam gapes, his eyes prickling, but he whirls and flees before the tears can fall. He can hear Dean exploding behind him, "What the fuck, douchebag?" and the blond saying, "What, man? It's funny!" He makes sure to slam the bathroom door.

His shower is warm, but bleak. He washes himself til all of his skin is rosy and a little sore, and the water is running lukewarm. The door slammed ages ago; Sam wonders if Dean left with his friend, so they could find a more private couch. Maybe a bed.

That warm feeling surges back, more noticeable in the waning heat of the water. Still a bit unsteady, Sam bites his lip and thinks of the noises Dean made, the way his back and thigh muscles pulled as he moved. His temperature spikes, a rush of sweat issuing from his pores that's instantly swept away as Sam stands there, panting beneath the spray. His hands are still moving over his skin, even though the pilfered motel soap has long since slivered itself down the drain.

There have been changes that Sam has noticed in his body, in himself, as he draws nearer to his birthday. He's grown a few inches, he feels taller and stronger than ever, but it's something more than that. Something that's been brewing, low in his gut, that early morning wiggling and hot surprises just can't satisfy.

Sam glances down the planes of his body and eyes his cock, stiff and red, jutting out at an abrupt angle. He's felt brushes against it that were like whip-cracks and rain all at the same time, and he's ground it into his mattress on those mornings when it's so hard and unbearable, but Sam has never ventured to do what he's doing now. When his pruned-up fingers wrap around that hardness and tug, his gasp echoes sharp before it's lost amid the water.

Oh. _Oh_. No wonder Dean does this so often. Sam moves his hand faster, tugging harder, figuring out what feels best. He can feel his own heartbeat there, pulsing in the huge vein on the underside, pushing through the tunnel he's made of his grip. His hips stutter, push him through quicker. The water moves over him, makes his movements slick, and it's okay that it's cold now because Sam is on fire.

Knees shaking, heart pounding, he jerks forward and catches himself against the cool tile, hand working furiously. Still a little awkward, but something big is building, he can feel it. It's a precipice looming, and Sam's going to run right off the edge. He adjusts his fingers, bites his lip. His imagination just wants to play what he saw on repeat, plus a few other stolen images -- all of his brother. Sam knows it's wrong, but he's not convinced as to why, and even if he's developed an inkling he surely doesn't care right now.

His thumb swipes over the head of his cock, fingers over a spot of nerves just below it. Dean's voice echoes in his memory, his groan of release, and Sam can't help his own cry when orgasm overtakes him. Paroxysms of pleasure so intense he might be crying force the boy to his knees in the cold spray, shaking and smiling so wide he gets water in his mouth.

That felt fantastic. He can't wait to do it again.

When Sam gets out, he's still smiling. He finds a shirt, a pair of shorts, and stumbles down to the kitchen all wet-haired and gangly. He's hoping like hell that he missed something in the cupboards, rice or anything, because now after all that activity his stomach is trying desperately to become one with his spine.

The kitchen isn't empty. It draws him up short as he tries to reconcile Dean sitting at the kitchen table with his earlier assumption that Dean had left. And his brother's just _sitting_ there, facing him. Sam settles for a head-cock of confusion, the lassitude from his shower diluting the adrenaline.

Dean looks contrite. Oh, wait, he's not gonna try to --

"What you saw --" the older boy begins, then stops to clear his throat. A tinge of color brings the freckles out across his cheekbones, and Sam fights the urge to roll his eyes.

His brother tries again. "You know how, most guys like girls, well... some guys also sometimes, uh --"

This time Sam does roll his eyes. "I know guys can like other guys, Dean." He means it to be scathing, _I'm twelve, not an idiot_ , but the words come out too softly. Dean looks pained.

"I shouldn't have brought him back here, I thought --" One hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck, and Dean looks away. Sam doesn't know what to say, other than a hurried "It's okay, Dean, seriously" to try and stem the tide of miscommunicated good intentions. He's _hungry_.

Dean eyes him like he might a tricky piece of the Impala -- or a gun. He looks like he wants to ask all sorts of questions, and with a sick snap in his belly Sam remembers what happened. He'd gotten so caught up in the shower that he'd forgotten all about his shame. He can feel his cheeks spread crimson, but says lightly, "So. What were you planning to do about food? It's a third-world country in here and I'm starving."

His brother looks taken aback, but he recovers quickly. He always does. "There's half a pizza in the fridge," he replies, just as lightly. When he gets up to grab the meaty goodness and dump it on a microwavable plate, Sam finds his eyes drawn to his brother's slim hips.

He's old enough to know there's something not quite right about all of this. As he watches Dean punch buttons on the shiny white machine, he ponders what to do about it. What it'd even be possible for him to do about it – they're brothers, after all, and there's no way that Dean --

Like a scene from a movie, Dean turns around and sees him staring. For a split second, he looks so caught-out and beautiful in the waning afternoon light that Sam is stricken.

"F-forget the pizza," he manages, and bolts for the bedroom.

His brother catches him halfway down the hall, pinning him gently by wrist and hip. "Easy, tiger," the young man chuckles when Sam fights him, still holding his little brother so easily. Sam hates it, has always hated being smaller, but right now he especially just needs to get away from Dean. "Let me go --" he grunts, and mid-mocking-laugh Dean shifts across his front.

Now, no one's laughing.

"Sammy?" Dean says carefully. Sam stares fixedly at some point over his brother's right ear and hopes that the world will end, something, anything to distract from the slowly swelling interloper making a home against Dean's thigh. His hard, muscular -- that thigh muscle flexes, an involuntary twitch, and just as helplessly Sam's hips jerk forward. Oh, _god_ , that's good. Sam slumps a little in Dean's arms, hips thrusting slow and sharp, wanton and irrhythmic. He knows this is wrong, he's embarrassed by his utter lack of control, but the shame and warning signals are getting buried beneath the solid warmth of Dean pressing against him.

"Sammy, Sammy -- stop," Dean says desperately, hands planted on Sam's shoulders, pushing away from him and the wall, into his own space. Sam follows a little, can't help it, his brother's heat drawing him in -- Dean holds him off with one hand to his chest, green eyes wide. "You know this is not what I meant, right?"

Sam pouts. "'m not stupid, Dean." _I just want stupid things._ "You chased after me," he points out sullenly.

"Yeah, but kid, I didn't -- " The pressure is gone from his chest. Dean draws in on himself. There's the hand on the neck again, classic tell: he's uncomfortable.

Sam swallows and starts edging toward the room before Dean's next words can strike him. They do anyway: "I don't --"

"Yeah," Sam interrupts thickly, turning away. To his horror, his throat is closing up in the way that means he'll soon be crying. _Goddamnit, be a man already,_ he screams at himself. Aloud he manages to croak, "I got that, thanks."

Dean doesn't stop him when he moves into the bedroom they decided should be his, and closes the door. Sam thinks he hears a weak, "I didn't mean --" before his brother shuffles off; _to give me space_ , Sam thinks viciously, swiping at his face. _I would have needed space long before this, if I ever had any hope of being normal_.

Because he knows what this is. He's attracted to his older brother -- very much so, if the afternoon's events are anything to judge by. Sam knows the ugly word that defines this wrongness, and he whispers it aloud to himself in the still of his room. _Incest_. It rolls off his tongue, all snake syllables and sin. Sam feels a little sick.

For all that he understands why it's wrong, he doesn't. Not really. There are always people on TV, and on city street corners, talking so earnestly about everyone being free to love who they will, regardless of circumstance. Sam knows that's not how the world works, but he doesn't understand why that idea doesn't appeal to a wider audience. Don't people want to be happy? If you're a woman and you love a woman, then be with her. If you're a man and you love your own brother -- Sam knows it should be as simple as just two men, but somehow he _knows_ that two of the same flesh and blood should never come together like that.

He wonders how he knows that. Was it the library books he'd read? They'd seemed so dry and scholarly in their dissent. They laid out the law, and various beliefs, but never said anything explicit, Sam's sure. No one's ever told him so, not even Dad when he made them start sleeping in separate beds. John just said they were too old to wake up tangled together; what he should have said was, _this can turn into something illegal and immoral and you'll never recover_.

Because as Sam sinks into the confusion, loneliness, and regret of it all, he realizes that he never will.

Maybe, if Dean at least felt the same way...

Sam curls on his side in his bed, hunger forgotten, and tries not to feel anything at all.

He stays like that til well after the shadows have lengthened across his floor, swapping sunlight for tungsten street lights like torches across the lawn. There have been no door slams, nor blaring music, but Sam thinks he smells something cooking. Ultimately, his stomach overrides his stupor, and he decides he'll risk interacting with Dean for a chance at some sustenance.

The dining table is laid out, surprising Sam as he passes it. They usually just eat in the kitchen off paper plates, but Dean found real dishes and silverware somewhere. Sam wasn't aware his brother even knew how to make a place setting. He finds himself smiling at the tableau.

Dean bustles in from the kitchen in that striped apron, a steaming dish clasped between two cheery apple potholders. He's smiling, humming something vaguely familiar. When he spots Sam, the smile falters a bit, but it also gains in warmth. "Go ahead, sit," he says, placing the dish. "Just gotta grab one more thing."

Sam slides into the place closest to him, peering into the kitchen. He can't see the stove from there, but he can hear Dean clanking equipment and humming again. Whatever he's placed on the table smells delicious.

When Dean comes back in he's lost the apron, his hair a little rucked up on one side. Sam's fingers itch to smooth it down, but that would just make this whole thing worse. He settles for sticking his tongue out at Dean for no apparent reason.

One dark eyebrow arches upward, but Dean doesn't make a quip. It would have been something like _What's gotten into you anyway_ , and that would have just killed the conversation all over again. As it is, the lack of Dean's sarcasm there leaves a hole that the brothers fill badly with silence, and fidgeting.

Sam's eyes drop to his napkin. Is the whole dinner going to be this awkward? Is the rest of his life?

A clank of crockery draws his eyes up again just as Dean ladles something meaty and steaming on to his plate. Sam's mouth waters. "Where did you get all this?" he marvels, reaching to serve himself.

"I, uh, I found a deep freezer in the garage," his brother says, focusing more intently on his meat than is strictly necessary. "Rifles 'n shit, too. I think old dude was a game hunter." He slurps a mouthful noisily. "This was labeled as last season's deer."

Sam takes a bite of his own, smiling at the gamey taste. "Reminds me of Mississippi," he says around the food. He hopes Dean will remember -- years ago they killed some deer while on a job, collateral damage, but John insisted on having a fellow hunter process the carcasses for a share of the meat. The first night they ate it, Dean fried up some of the ground portion, and both he and John insisted to Sam that it was beef. He'd been there the whole time, he knew it was deer and he liked it -- but he played along just because his family cared so much.

Across the table, Dean smiles. "'s better 'n beef, anyhow," he says, and Sam returns the smile. Maybe not so awkward after all.

There are no leftovers, of course, not from a meal like that between two growing boys. Dean cooked, so Sam cleans up, running the water hot enough to sting his hands as he washes pots and plates. He finishes and dries freshly pruned fingers with an already-damp towel, then casts about looking for Dean. His eyes catch the oven clock -- holy crap, it's after midnight. He was in his room for much longer than he thought. Long enough for deep-frozen chunks of meat to thaw and become a meal.

Dean appears in the doorway. "I was gonna head to bed," he says lazily, "but if you wanna watch a movie or somethin', go for it."

With a start, Sam realizes today was Friday. No school tomorrow. Well then, why not? He wonders at first why Dean isn't joining him, they could watch one of those old cowboy movies he likes -- but then Sam remembers that Dean's got reasons to be tired. His smile might be a little tight as he says, "I think I might. Uh, sleep well."

He's the first to turn away, and he makes it all the way in to the house's DVD collection before he hears Dean's door close.

Nicholas Cage solves things, and then Sam is staring at a blue screen and wondering when the movie ended. His mouth tastes like stale dinner. _Brush, then bed_ , he tells himself, the thought sticking in sludge between formation and understanding. Zombified, Sam pads down the hall. He passes Dean's room and notices the door's ajar, breathing deeply the scent on the air emanating from the crack.

A sound leaves the room with that air, and Sam chokes.

This isn't a moan, or a sigh. This is the most melancholy noise of pleasure Sam has ever heard, a sob so steeped in sex it makes his bones ache. He edges closer, needing to see more badly than he's ever needed to breathe.

When his eyes adjust, all his nerves alight, and he can't help the small whimper that forces its way from his throat. _Dean_...

His brother is planted face first on the bed, on his knees, his bare ass stuck straight up in the air. Sam has a perfect view of the three thick fingers sliding in and out of Dean's dark little hole, movement below suggesting a frantic pace to the hand on his cock. His noises are muffled, because Dean knows Sam is still awake out there, but they're not muffled enough to keep from affecting Sam where he stands paralyzed and overwhelmed with sensation. His whole body is a riot.

Dean whines, bucking back between his hands, and Sam is flying across that room before he knows he's moved. He doesn't have a plan, just launches himself on to the bed, ignoring Dean's shout and abortive scramble. He's got the element of surprise, and he uses it to grab the hand Dean's got stuck up inside and shove it in deeper, following the motion with his own hips. "Sammy!" Dean cries, all heat and scandal, but Sam just drapes his skinny frame over his brother and shoves again. _"Dean_ ," he moans, feeling his fingers slide sticky over his brother's, feeling where those disappear into Dean's lube-slick, clenching hole. Dean is still struggling, but he's losing the battle, Sam can tell by the way little sounds of pleasure intersperse his protests.

"Sam, you gotta, _unh_ , get off me, man, we can't --- _hnn_ , we can't do this-oh, _fuck_ , Sammy --" Dean is pleading, but Sam can't stop touching him.

"You want this," he says, so matter-of-factly, sounding so much older with his husk of a voice. "I want this. Why's it gotta be complicated?"

In a feat of strength and willpower, Dean wrenches his hand away and flips on to his back, scooting up the bed til his back hits the headboard. He's staring at Sam like he's never seen him before. Sam stares right back, drinking in the full-body flush, the blown pupils in darkened green eyes. Hair mussed, shoulders shaking finely. Sam has never known want like this. It's beginning to consume him.

"Do you know why this is wrong?" Dean asks. Not like Sam's a little kid, but like he's somebody Dean knows and trusts to be intelligent. Like an equal. Sam's chest swells a little. "Yeah," he answers in defiance. "But I think they're stupid reasons."

A little hitch of a laugh barks out of Dean. "Yeah. But you know it's to protect you, right?"

"From what? From feeling good?" Sam presses obstinately, inching forward. His brother flinches minutely but doesn't move. "Don't you always say you should do what feels right?"

"But this isn't right," Dean says. Sam can't read his tone. He hears resignation, acceptance, a spiral down through those words that makes him inexorably sad to hear -- but they sound more like an empty protest than anything else.

Hope springs eternal. Sam inches closer.

Dean's tacky fingers pick at the bedspread. He's no longer looking at his little brother. He's getting angry, darkness piling on to his face, shadows in his eyes. Sam's not sure what's going on in that head of his, but has a pretty good idea. He's validated when Dean speaks.

"I musta done something really wrong to you," he says, so low the words sink into the ground.

Even though he knew it was coming, Sam still stares in disbelief. "You --"

Dean holds up a hand, cutting him off. "Why else would you think this is okay?" He's thoroughly entrenched in it now, self-loathing and so convinced of his villainy. Sam almost wants to laugh. "Dean," he says, but his tone is too light. Dean's glare snaps up and pins him in glittering green.

"You think this is fucking funny?" he rages, and it's made all the scarier when he doesn't get loud. He looks pissed, but he sounds helpless, and Sam doesn't like that at all. Dean keeps going. "You're just a kid, you don't get it -- I might've _ruined_ you --"

"I'm not fucking ruined, Dean!" Sam shouts, and in the space of Dean's shock at that filthy curse falling from his innocent little brother's lips, he moves forward until only a foot remains between them. "You don't get to tell me," he continues at a more conversational volume, "that just because I'm young, I don't know what I want."

"You don't, you... can't," Dean protests weakly, his body curving in on itself, trying to put more space between them. There's nowhere for him to go.

Sam leans in. "I do, and I can." His breath gusts back at him, exhaled from Dean's lips.

His brother hauls in a lungful, then another, short on air. He looks so fearful, but Sam's not scared at all. "It's okay, Dean," he says, and his voice is steady.

"But you -- I can't -- you're my brother, Sam, Christ," Dean whispers. "I'm supposed to protect you. This can't --"

"Shh," Sam whispers, and kisses him.

As first kisses go, it's nothing special. Damp lips catch dry ones and hold them tight, pressing nerve endings together in the space of a caught breath. To Sam, though, it's all fireworks, light expanding and filling all the spaces within him. When the kiss breaks and he grins at Dean, he feels like that light is shining from his eyes. His whole body feels weightless.

Dean just looks stunned. He licks his lips, probably on instinct. Sam leans in again, wanting to taste.

His brother holds him back. "Sammy," comes the smallest whisper ever to fall from those lips, "are you absolutely fucking sure?"

"Yes," he says simply, because he is, and his body is singing with desire to pile atop Dean and sink into him forever. He wants to learn his big brother's body until he knows Dean better than the young man knows himself, until he can get Dean off with a flick of his finger --

His gut tightens, and he clutches himself around the middle. Suddenly, he's aching. "God, yes," he moans, _"Dean_ \--"

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean mutters, reaching for him, "c'mere --"

Their second kiss is primal, a clashing of mouths, teeth and tongues caught up in a grunt and a sigh. Dean presses Sam backward til he's flat on the bed and ranges over him, lithe and toned from the life they lead. Sam feels coltish beside such easy beauty, awkward beneath his brother like this, but those thoughts are chased away by the slick slide of Dean's tongue fucking into his mouth. He moans down Dean's throat and tries his best to reciprocate, but more and more he just feels like he's drowning. Eventually Dean pulls off on one elbow, chuckling and wiping his mouth.

"Sorry," Sam mutters, glancing away.

Dean's fingers catch his chin and force him back to where Dean is smiling, indulgent and not at all judgmental. "It takes practice, trust me," he says. Sam's eyes track to his brother's plump lips, now kiss-reddened, and Dean chuckles again, lower and full of heat. "Yeah, Sammy, that's the idea."

This time when they kiss, Sam tries to focus on technique -- but then Dean is running a hand through his hair, cupping his jaw, and he just groans and gives in. Kisses in the movies never looked like they felt like he's feeling right now, and Sam wonders why Hollywood lied. This is _better_. This is Heaven -- Dean is ambrosia against his tongue.

Heavy, naked hips descend upon his, Dean grunts into their kiss, and Sam gasps when a hard line of heat presses against him through his shorts. They break for air, but Sam's still gasping, rutting harder and harder up against Dean. Dean shoves an arm around underneath his brother's back and hauls him in so close that his own heartbeat could be Sam's, slamming out of both their chests. Sam has never felt so close to taking flight. He whines, babbling, "God, yes, _Deannn_... want you, want you so fu--" he chokes on the swear, caught up "--n bad, Dean --"

Suddenly, all of it stops. Dean pulls off of him so abruptly it's a shock, moving to the edge of the bed. Sam can hear him muttering, "This is fucking _wrong_..." and he sits up, reaching out to graze Dean's bare shoulder.

Dean flinches, too hard this time not to hurt Sam's feelings. "What?" he queries, stung.

"You're too young, Sam," comes the gruff reply, and that's just insulting.

Sam scrabbles his way out of the bed and plants himself in front of Dean, brazenly grabbing Dean's hand and fitting it to his own cloth-bound erection. The heat and pressure is heavenly, but he forces himself to focus, to say, "Do I feel too young to you?"

And the way Dean's lips quirk up, like he's thinking _yeah, but you'll grow_ , is Sam's last straw.

"I'll show you too young," he snaps, and rushes his brother, throwing them both on the bed. Dean, by merit of his musculature, manages to keep his back off the covers by a good few inches, but Sam is insistent, pinning his brother with desperate dead weight. The minute he feels Dean's abs give, he attaches his lips to his brother's neck, and sucks.

Dean arches beneath him, swearing, hands caught between clutching and pushing away. Sam sweeps his lips down to where he can suckle on the gentle rise of Dean's collarbone, one hand pawing at the side of Dean's head. He flits over bare skin, kissing, licking wide stripes just to hear Dean swear some more.

When he captures a nipple between lips and gentle teeth, Dean makes an animal noise and shudders beneath him. Hardness fills the space between his legs. Sam suckles, finding the other tight bud with his fingertips. He hears, "You better be damn sure about this," growled from somewhere all around him as hands worm lower, kneading his sides beneath his shirt, his hips, and when Dean's clever fingers work open Sam's zipper Sam just sighs against his skin.

His brother's hand on him is a flash fire, reducing Sam to cinders in the space of a breath. He's spontaneously combusting beneath that dextrous touch on his cock, gentle but sure on stiffness that twitches desperately with every touch. Dean's working him into a frenzy, his hips darting down for more, more, and he can't even focus on what his mouth is doing. He breathes noises against Dean's chest, high and helpless, riding his brother for all he's worth.

Orgasm takes him captive, leaves him choking out, "F-f _fuck_ , Deannnn..." He shakes, pulse after reedy pulse squirting between them, all over Dean's cock, slicking their slide. Sam can't breathe. Dean clutches him, eyes rolling back, _"Oh_ \-- shit, Sammy --" he moans, rocking up harder. His exhale is more whine than carbon dioxide, and Sam's getting hard again.

He's caught between _too much_ and _ooh, more_ when Dean's grip becomes a vise on his hips and grinds him down, soaking fabric and a painful zipper squishing oddly against his overly sensitive dick. Sam squirms, trying for equilibrium, but the movement only serves to send a throb through Dean's cock that Sam can feel.

Need to feel more, _now_ \-- "Pants off," he urges, wriggling. Dean throws him to the side in one arm, shucks off his pants, shirt too, and pulls him back on top before Sam can register what's happening. He's a little in awe of his big brother then, a daze that intensifies when Dean snags his mouth in a filthy kiss.

His hips shift, and oh, Dean is _huge_ and _right there_ , riding up the crack of his butt and touching some interesting things back there. Sam has to catch himself with hands planted, hovering over Dean, feeling the heave of his brother's chest, the fill of his cock. A shaking hand smooths over his hair, tracing his cheek and jaw lines like Dean needs to memorize them. They are linked, fitted together so well that Sam has no idea why anyone would think this isn't just meant to be.

Dean starts to roll his hips, slow and almost somber, looking Sam dead in the eyes like he wants to impress some wisdom. But it can't stay that way, not with Sam's cock trapped between their bellies, sliding hot through his own mess, with Dean's thick shaft skimming places on Sam that the boy hadn't even dreamed of stimulating. One sharp thrust, the head of Dean's cock digs in just _there_ , and Sam throws his head back and howls.

He breathes like a racehorse when his head comes back down, more heat between them than he'd ever thought possible. "Do it," he whispers on impulse, and Dean looks torn, terrified and filled with a longing so fierce it adds to the terror. "Don't tell me that," he says, and he sounds wrecked. Sam clenches his cheeks together around Dean's cock and feels him shiver. "Why not?"

Dean's eyes flicker everywhere but his. "Just don't."

Knowing he may never get another chance, Sam presses: "Why?"

It's his big brother in every sense looking back at him when Dean answers. "Because you really are too young."

Dean kisses him before he can protest, a long, slow, sweet pressure that has Sam sighing and sinking in. He has a sour feeling that Dean's right, that it's one of those things he'll never budge on. He just can't bring himself to care when Dean kisses him like this.

Lips leave his and travel across his face gracelessly until they're hot breath and a promise in his ear. "Too young for that," Dean muses, his tongue flicking along the shell of Sam's ear. The boy rocks his hips back slowly, unconsciously, a slow burn along his core. "How about you get on your hands and knees for me?" his brother purrs, and it takes Sam several seconds to process this.

When he does, he sits bolt upright, nearly ignoring the rod up his back. Dean looks startled; Sam can only guess what expression is on his face. "What?" the older boy asks.

Sam narrows his eyes, but says nothing as he climbs off of Dean carefully and moves to crouch beside him on the bed. When he turns to meet Dean's eyes, he hopes what he's not saying is clear: You know I trust you. Please don't hurt me.

A hand slides reverently down his side, warm and callused. "This is gonna feel good, Sammy, promise," Dean says. He sounds hoarse, and Sam wonders what's going to happen. He likes Dean's hands, both of them on his back now, sliding to caress his butt, to -- huh? He whips his head around, trying to see. "Dean, what're you --"

"Shush," Dean admonishes between Sam's spread cheeks, a puff of air in a most sensitive place. On the verge of hyperventilating, Sam holds his breath. _Oh god, oh god, oh JESUS FUCK_

Wet, warm, probing muscle right where Sam never knew he needed it most, spreading shockwaves out through his body that wrack him, invade him, crawl into his throat and emerge as the most wanton cries he's ever heard out of anyone. Dean pulls back after what feels like an eternity with a throaty "Damn, you're sensitive."

"Was that your _tongue?"_ Sam asks shrilly, even though he knows that it was, of course it was. His whole body is tense, finely strung with pleasure, and his only fully conscious thought is the fierce desire for Dean to _put it back._ He tells his brother so, impatiently.

Chuckling, Dean does.

This time, he slides it inside, thick and alive. Sam lets out a noise and shifts back, fucking himself on Dean's tongue. When Dean groans, Sam can feel it up through what feels like a minefield of nerves, _ohhh god_. He loses himself to the floods of pleasure rushing him, yowling and clutching the sheets. He's out of his mind and Dean's sending him there, hands massaging, pulling, tongue fucking Sam so deep he can feel it in his dick. "Oh, _Dean_ ," the boy moans, rocking back, spearing himself and Dean, the bastard, _wriggles his tongue_.

Sam comes for _days_ , shaking and clenching like he can draw that sweet stab in further. He can feel Dean panting frantically behind him, into him, the slap of flesh on flesh where he's fisting his cock. Still shaking, vision halfway lost between the gray-out world of orgasm and their own, he rolls on his back and sits upright sloppily, grabbing at Dean's hand.

His brother lets out a disgruntled noise. "Whatcha doin', Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam says, a little muzzily. He stares at his hand on Dean's, at the purpling head of his dick. There was a reason, something he wanted -- he's floating after all of that, and his thoughts refuse to order themselves. To give himself time, he moves his hand, slowly massaging both their fingers around Dean's length.

Dean shifts on his heels and groans. "God, Sam, are you trying to kill me?"

"No," Sam says softly, still moving his hand. He's remembered. "Dean, put these back where you had them." He strokes Dean's fingers, still slightly coated with lube.

His brother's expression is stuck somewhere between a smirk and stunned disbelief. "You wanna... you wanna watch me?"

"I want you to, uh, get off feeling as good as I did," Sam says, stumbling a bit over the lingo. He cracks a grin to cover. "When you were doing that, it looked like you were having a hell of a time."

"Heh." Dean shifts on the bed. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice. Get the lube off the nightstand, would ya?"

Sam moves as quickly as he can on limbs made of soldered spaghetti, too-long arms and legs tangling over themselves as he snags the tube. He ends up throwing it at Dean, only for it to smack his hip because he's already turned around. The young man snorts, and snatches it up. "Get comfortable, Sammy," he says with a leer, snapping the tube open.

In all his thirteen years, Sam has never watched anything so intently. Not his father's lessons on guns, not a monster in his sights, nothing. The lube falls in slow motion, it seems, on to the wrinkled skin around Dean's hole. He hisses on contact -- _cold_ , Sam realizes -- but hummed contentedly when two of his fingers began to massage it in.

"The trick with this," Dean says in a teaching sort of voice, "is to get your lube where you need it. A lot of people start by putting it on their fingers, but those aren't the part that'll hurt like a bitch if you don't use enough. See?" And he _presents_ himself to Sam.

The boy stares, fascinated. Dean has spread his legs and tilted his hips so his hole is exposed, shiny and wet with lube, pucker flexing lazily. Sam moves abortively forward before he realizes, and then he's glad for the darkness to hide his flush.

Dean chuckles. "It's okay, Sammy."

Startled, Sam sucks in a breath. "I can... can I touch?"

"Mm hm," Dean hums. The air whistles out of Sam's lungs as he extends his hand, inching closer, reminded of the fresco in Italy where God gives Adam life in much the same way.

The skin is slick and warm to the touch, and Dean wriggles a little, making a happy little noise of surprise when Sam's fingertips slide. It's an odd sensation, the folds of flesh, gaping and clenching in response to his touch. Sam finds himself fascinated, and doesn't even mean to press in -- the very tip of his finger breaches Dean, who mewls. "Ah -- Ssam," he says shakily.

"Is it okay?" Sam doesn't know why he's whispering. Dean's body is reacting, rim fluttering around his finger. His only instinct is to push in deeper, but he is scared to death of crossing some line and having all of this taken away.

Everything moves a little when Dean nods. "Go for it," he says, his own whisper all husk and anticipation. Sam wriggles his finger a bit, and listens to the changes in Dean's breathing pattern as he works it deeper.

Despite what he saw earlier, the channel is almost impossibly tight around him. Sam's still-somewhat-slender finger feels thicker than a plank of wood. He ceases an inch or so in; Dean peers back over his shoulder.

"It's tight," Sam says stupidly, staring at the place where his finger disappears into his brother's body. Dean hums. "Keep going. You'll -- _ah!_ \-- you'll feel a kind of a _nnn_ tug --" There it is, a pull on his fingertip, urging him deeper. Sam slides in further, until the resistance lessens. "There, keep going," Dean says, "Just --" And he's there, one finger buried to the hilt in his brother's heat. Sam stares.

Dean shifts around him, chuckling somewhat breathlessly. "Like what you see?"

Some kind of noise comes out of Sam as a reply, his wonder evident. He experiments a little, sliding in and out a fraction, feeling the clench and pull of muscle and skin around him. Dean's breath hitches when he presses especially deep.

"You can, uh, add another one if you -- _yeow!"_ Sam's eyes go wide, slick finger frozen in midair. Dean looks around at him ruefully. "Shoulda mentioned, never pull out that fast. Kinda hurts."

Sam's heart drops to his toes. "Shit, I'm sorry!" He can feel his face crumpling.

"Hey, it's okay," his brother soothes. "Just add more lube and get back in there, maybe add your middle finger, too. There's something I think you'll be able to reach."

Sam does as he's told, drizzling the chilly substance and rubbing it with two fingertips. He pours a good amount up his fingers, too, eying the little pucker doubtfully. He did see Dean use three... and Dean's fingers are bigger...

"Lose something back there?" Dean says, and Sam jumps a little. "N- no, sorry," he rushes, and circles his fingers once around the rim before pushing them both inside.

This time he just moves all the way in, a long steady slide that Dean tracks with a groan torn from his very soul. When Sam bottoms out, the entire tunnel is seizing around him, and Dean is panting, "Okay, now feel around, there. Just under your fingertips, you -- _ah_ \-- may want to --" He hisses. _"Don't_ curl your finger, just search that soft part for a small bundle of -- oh sweet Jesus _fuck_ in heaven, Sammy," he cries when Sam finds the little nub of his prostate. Sam rubs over it, and Dean practically sobs, "Get in there, move, do that and move," and when Sam does his brother thrusts back against him, jutting his hips to strike that spot against Sam's fingers. "Oh, _fuck_ that's good."

Sam gets the idea to add a third, but he needs more lube, and Dean is moving on him with a purpose. He settles for nudging in the third quickly on a stroke while he dumps on a whole mess of the sticky stuff -- Dean keens, feeling the thickness, the mass of Sam's fingers dragging heavier over the spot that makes him scream.

The pinky finger slides in without too much resistance, and now Sam can move more freely. He fucks Dean hard with a strength trained into him by their militant father, nailing him with wet squelches and brutal swipes over the prostate that have Dean writhing. "Touch me, Sammy, fuckin' touch me," he's begging, voice ripped apart, hands fumbling. Sam reaches around and bats those flailing hands away.

"Mine," he says ruthlessly, grinding down on Dean's prostate, stripping his cock from root to head with the slide of excess lube. " _Fuck_ yes," Dean shouts, and his cock swells impossibly hard in Sam's hand. He grunts, high and loose, with each pulse of his spunk, painting the sheets beneath him. Sam twists his inserted fingers, mere breaths over the prostate, until Dean is shaking, pulling away.

He makes it on to his side, and smiles back at Sam hazily. "That was great," he slurs.

Sam gives him a crooked smile back. "You're a good teacher."

"Y'want some help with that?" Dean waves his hand in a vaguely lewd gesture.

Startled, Sam looks in the direction indicated. His flushed erection takes him completely by surprise. "Oh!" He regards it for a moment, then looks at his filthy lube-soaked hand. "No, I got it."

He grasps his cock and hisses in through his teeth at the slick, dirty slide. He knows Dean's shifting for a better view and somehow that just makes him hotter. _Nngh_ escapes his clenched teeth, his fist closing tighter and tighter, his eyes falling shut so he can pretend it's Dean's body wrapped around him, those bowed legs sprawling wide. Flush and freckles and green iris swallowed by black pupil, Dean is beautiful, and -- a hand joins his, and Sam's eyes fly open. Dean is inches away, lips parted and shiny.

Sam sucks in a breath, and comes. His eyes are wide, filled with nothing but Dean.

The world seems far too still after he stops shaking, the only sound or movement their heaving breaths in the semi-dark. A whole lot of nothing whirls around in Sam's head. He's satiated beyond belief, so happy he could burst with it while at the same time, so very tired. The corners of Dean's lips twitch, curling up, and Sam ducks his head to grin, and then they're laughing and kissing, sighing and simply gazing.

It's more romcom than Sam knows Dean would ever admit to, and he knows they both love it.

By some unspoken agreement, the brothers collect one another in a tangle of arms and find their way horizontal. They smile at one another, sleepy and secret. _You're amazing_ , Sam thinks very loudly, but doesn't manage to say it aloud before he falls toward unconsciousness, couched in all the mess.

The morning, when Sam finally notices it, is well on its way to noon. He awakes disoriented and completely unsure before his head clears enough to notice that a) he's in his own room, b) he's free of lube and jizz, he's got pajamas on, and c) he can hear Dad's and Dean's voices coming from a kitchen that smells suspiciously like bacon.

He takes a long, deep breath, exhaling on a smile as last night comes flooding back. Dean... Dean's hands... his... ooh. Sam shudders a little, wondering what all that cock would feel like in his mouth. Or... in _him_. Sam licks his lips. He's seen porn, he knows it's just like fingers only bigger. Oh, god. He would be so _full_.

Stirrings of heat begin to stiffen his cock, and Sam gives in to the urge, shoving a hand down the front of his drawstring pants. He grasps himself and remembers Dean.

Breakfast with Dad can wait a few minutes.

 

FIN

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥


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